The Underhills' place was a two-story white frame house with narrow columns divided by a small upstairs porch. The front door stood open, and now she could hear voices from within. She wondered whether to call out to let them know she was there, or to go in as unobtrusively as possible so as not to disturb them. There's a lot of blood, the sheriff had said. She stopped on the threshold of the Underhills' front hall, a spacious entryway paneled in shining chestnut boards. Each wall contained a closed door. The muffled voices seemed to be coming from above. Laura walked to the base of the stairs and called up toward the upstairs hall, "Mr. Arrowood! It's Laura Bruce, from the church."
A moment later a scowling, dark-haired deputy appeared on the stairway landing. "Are you here to see about the kids?" he demanded, clattering down the stairs. His blue eyes never left her face, and she felt a momentary twinge of free-floating guilt. On his khaki uniform the silver name bar said J. LeDonne.
"Yes, Officer . . . LeDonne," she stammered. "The sheriff asked me to come."
He nodded. "They're in here." He nodded toward a closed door to the left of the stairs. "I'll take you."
Laura stood still. "First I need to know what happened. The sheriff didn't seem to want to go into detail on the phone. Are they all right? I'm not even sure which . . . who . . . who's left."
LeDonne glanced for a moment in the direction of the voices in the front parlor. "They'll be bringing the bodies out soon," he said. "But I'll tell you the gist of it. We got a call about eleven from Maggie Underhill, the teenage daughter."
"Yes," said Laura. "I know her from the church. She sings in our choir."
"She acts, too. She and her brother Mark were down at the high school practicing for the class play. Hamlet. While they were gone, some kind of altercation took place here on the farm. We haven't pieced it all together yet. When Mark and Maggie Underhill returned from play practice, they discovered the bodies of their parents in the living room." He jerked his thumb toward the room to the right. "Both had been killed with blasts from a shotgun. They called us, and while they were waiting for us to get here, they checked the rest of the house, and found their other brothers, also dead." LeDonne paused, as if debating whether to say more. Her shock, which he took for calmness, encouraged him to tell her the rest. "The older boy's wound was self-inflicted. Right now we
think that he killed the rest of the family and then committed suicide."
"They're all dead?" Laura repeated, trying to take it all in. What, all my pretty chickens and their dam? No, that wasn't the right play.
LeDonne nodded. "Except for the two who were at play practice. I don't know why he didn't wait for them. The sheriff has talked to them a little, but they're in shock, and we have the rest of the crime scene to attend to. If you'd just keep them company, we'd appreciate it. They don't need to be alone."
"You don't want me to find out anything, do you?"
"No, ma'am." LeDonne was patient. "If they volunteer anything, fine. But we asked you here as a family friend."
"But I didn't—"
"I know. Nobody around here knew that family worth a damn. Maybe if they had, this wouldn't have happened."
He opened the door for her, and when she hung back, he edged through ahead of her and led the way into the front room, an extra bedroom that doubled as sewing room and study. "It's all right," he murmured so that the youngsters couldn't overhear. "There's not much blood in here."
Laura saw flecks of blood on the white wall near the window. Had someone been trying to open the window to escape from the gunman? She tried to imagine the Underhills' terror, facing their own son turned executioner. Would there be room left in their brains to feel any
emotion other than fear? Compassion, perhaps, for the boy's anguish? Or did the combat-trained major respond by fighting back against the enemy?
The image of Nora Bonesteel and her lost playmate, Nellie, sprang unbidden to her mind, and she forced herself to stop thinking of the Underhills' final moments. It was a form of prying, she thought. Suppose they could "overhear" her thoughts? That was nonsense, of course, but it was pointless for her to dwell on the horrors of their ordeal. She lowered her gaze to avoid the reminder of violence, and saw that she had nearly stepped in a rust-colored footprint on the beige carpeting. Stifling her cry of surprise with a deep intake of breath, she fixed her eyes firmly on the back of LeDonne's khaki uniform.
She must remember to pray for them, she was thinking as the deputy opened the door to the Underhill den.
Mark and Maggie Underhill sat together on the beige sofa, staring at the only splash of color in the room—a late-night television program on the screen in front of them. The rest of the room shrank away from the beholder in timid beiges and passive browns, offering no clue to the occupants' personality except to suggest that they had none.
On the wall above the sofa hung a family portrait of six people smiling selfconsciously at the camera. Paul Underhill, stiff and formal in full military uniform, seemed unaware of the others' presence. Beside him, in a dress of straw-
colored linen, his wife, Janet, simpered, her eyes upturned to gaze reverently at the major. The three older children stood restlessly behind their parents. Josh, a sallow and gangly adolescent in an ill-fitting navy blazer, glowered as if daring anyone to ridicule his awkwardness. His sandy hair glistened with oil, and his hands, just visible in the space between his parents, were twisted together, showing white knuckles.
The other two teenagers, Mark and Maggie, had inherited their father's classic features and dark good looks, and were so alike that one could mistake them for twins. Maggie wore a white lace dress, with a gold cross at her throat. Her long dark hair was tied back with a ribbon of red satin, revealing tiny gold crosses in her earlobes. A solemn expression and the unnatural tilt of her chin gave her the appearance of someone in an old sepia photograph, holding the long stilted pose of the daguerreotype. She stood directly behind her mother, forcing the viewer to see the unfortunate contrast between Maggie Underbill's youth and beauty and the dowdiness of the faded, negligible woman seated in front of her.
Mark Underhill might have been his father at seventeen, but his expression lacked the determination radiating from the older man. The boy was sleekly handsome, almost pretty. His dark hair was well groomed and fell across his forehead in a flattering side part, emphasizing his dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. Surely this young man's adolescence had been more
pleasant than that of his older brother Josh. He wore a white shirt and red necktie, in harmony with his sister's attire, but instead of looking at her or at the camera, he was glancing apprehensively to the right, toward Josh and Major Underhill.
The youngest child, Simon, eight years old and still a cherubic blond, sat cross-legged at his parents' feet, looking sulky and impatient. One of Janet's hands was resting on the shoulder of his red blazer, as if to restrain him until the photo could be taken.
No one in the picture was smiling.
How odd that these ordinary, slightly dull people should die so suddenly, so dramatically. Laura realized that her detachment came from disbelief. The actuality of the Underhill murders had not hit her quite yet. She wondered if Mark and Maggie had realized the finality of it all. They were still staring at the television, oblivious to the presence of anyone else in the room.
Maggie Underbill's dark hair now hung in ringlets about her shoulders. A curling iron, Laura guessed. She wore a pink knit sweater and black jeans.
Mark Underhill looked Byronic in his oversized white shirt, his dark hair curling about the collar. Laura wondered if he had been asked to grow it longer for his role in the play. Major Underhill was not the sort of man who would have permitted his son to wear such an effete style otherwise.
The pair did not acknowledge the deputy or 46
Laura. After an awkward moment of silence, she whispered to LeDonne. "Do you think they've gone into shock? Shouldn't they be seen by a doctor?"
"The rescue squad came out," Le
Donne told her. "They checked their blood pressure, gave them something. The kids didn't want to go to the hospital. Before the rescue squad could argue about it, they had another call come in about a wreck on Route 11, so they had to leave. That's when Spencer called you."
Laura looked doubtful. "I'll do my best," she murmured, "but I don't have any experience in grief counseling."
"You're better than nothing."
The silent figures on the couch stared at the flickering screen. Laura picked up an old oak straight chair and set it next to the sofa.
Suddenly, Maggie Underhill looked up at her with a curious smile, "He's dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone."
"Play's over now, Maggie!" said her brother, shaking her arm.
"It's been a great shock for her," said Laura. Sitting down next to Maggie, she leaned forward and said, "I don't know if you two remember me. I'm Laura Bruce, from the church, and I'm here to do whatever I can to help you get through this awful night."
Mark Underhill looked at her curiously. "Like what?"
"I don't know," said Laura. "Would you like to talk? Or perhaps I could make you some tea?
Perhaps you'd like to go somewhere else for a while."
"No," said Maggie, who seemed to have come out of her reverie. "We're going to stay here. They're going to take away the bodies. Will they clean it all up?"
Laura glanced at the deputy, whose shake of the head was almost imperceptible. "I'm afraid not," Laura stammered. "But I'm sure I can have that seen to tomorrow. Meanwhile, is there anyone who should be notified about this? Can I call anyone for you?"
Maggie Underbill shook her head. "Alone, alone, all all alone," she said dreamily. "Our grandparents are dead. And now Mom and Dad . .."
"It isn't as if we're children, though," said her brother. "Could we plan the funeral, Mrs. Bruce? It will have to be done soon, won't it? My mother would want it to be nice."
"I suppose we could," said Laura, who had never planned a funeral before. The idea of doing so now did not strike her as an appropriate consolation, but the Underhills seemed to have mastered their grief. "Have you any idea of the sort of service you want?"
"We could bury them here on the farm," said Mark.
His sister shook her head. "Not here, Mark. They might not care for that. It isn't as if we had lived here very long. We never lived anywhere very long, did we?"
"Can you arrange to have their clothes taken away?" he asked.
"I expect so," said Laura. There were women in the church that she could ask about this. Surely some local custom existed for such necessities of death. "Would you like the church to give the clothes to needy families?"
"I'll be going back to the other side now, Mrs. Bruce," said LeDonne. "If you need anything . . ." His voice trailed off. No one was listening.
LeDonne closed the family-room door firmly behind him, and went back to join the others. The Underhill siblings weren't behaving like any bereaved relatives he'd ever seen, but that didn't prove anything. The few murderers he had seen in county cases were usually hysterical, with some combination of remorse and fear that was difficult to distinguish from genuine bereavement. Guilty people couldn't afford to take things calmly. Except in 'Nam, where you couldn't afford to take them otherwise. Still, their lack of emotion made him wonder. He followed the sound of voices into the kitchen.
Sheriff Spencer Arrowood was talking to the county coroner, Gerald Graybeal, the latest member of his family to run Graybeal's Funeral Home in Hamelin. Beside them on the scarred wood floor lay three body bags, already sealed. Maj. Paul Underhill. Janet Underhill. Simon. And Josh. LeDonne looked around the room.
"We had only three body bags," said Spencer Arrowood, anticipating his question. "I had to put the little boy in with his mother." Beneath
the weariness in his voice there was an unmistakable strain of emotion.
"You taking the rabbit, too?" asked LeDonne.
Spencer nodded toward a green garbage bag folded next to the bodies. "Thought I would. I don't see how it fits in with anything, though. It was outside, and it hadn't been shot."
LeDonne's face darkened. "Be better if it had been. I hope the bastard that did that did get his head blown off."
The sheriff sighed. "I don't think there's much doubt of that. Wish he'd left a note."
"Why should he care what we think?"
Gerald Graybeal, a stout and hairy man with too red a face and too blue black hair, stifled a yawn. He glanced at his heavy gold watch, its band buried in the curl of hairs on his wrist. LeDonne wondered how the man could get it off without ripping out clumps of them. "Is that about it, Sheriff?" he asked. "There's not a whole lot I can do here, you know."
"I know," said Spencer. "But you know and I know that the law says there has to be a coroner present at a death scene to pronounce the victims dead."
"They're dead, all right, Sheriff. I've seen road-killed groundhogs that had a better chance of-"
"Yes, well, I appreciate your help getting them—" He nodded toward the zippered bags.
"Glad to help, boys." Graybeal hesitated. "Should I take them on to the funeral home, or do you need to run some tests?"
"Lab work," said Spencer. "They'll have to go 50
to the medical examiner. I know it's an open-and-shut case, but we still have to do it by the book."
"You never know," said LeDonne unexpectedly.
Graybeal and the sheriff looked at him in surprise. "You don't think the oldest boy did it?"
The deputy shrugged. "I just don't like taking things for granted."
When the crime scene had been thoroughly photographed, measured, and tested and the dead had been sent away, Spencer Arrowood decided that he ought to go in and see the stranger he'd routed out of bed to tend to the living. Nominally, the Bruces' church was the one that Spencer himself attended, because a great-uncle of his had once been pastor there. In recent years he had scarcely set foot inside the sanctuary, but his mother still went regularly, and she had given favorable reports of the new preacher's wife. He had not been able to think of anyone else to call.
He made his way to the colorless sitting room on the other side of the house, where Laura Bruce was deep in conference with the two surviving Underhills, making funeral arrangements. She looked older than Pastor Bruce, the sheriff decided: he was still shy of thirty; she must be closer to forty, but still attractive. Her short dark hair curled about her face becomingly, and there was an earnest sincerity in her face that he found reassuring. She seemed to be coping well with tragedy.
When she saw him standing in the doorway, she excused herself to the Underhill children, who barely seemed to notice, and joined him in the doorway. "Sheriff Arrowood? I'm Laura Bruce," she said a little breathlessly. "Is everything all right?"
The tiredness seemed to hit him in the back of the neck and creep slowly forward to his eyes and mouth. "Well, it's as all right as it's going to get, I reckon. We've finished up here, and the bodies have been removed for autopsy. I just wanted to thank you for coming out here. Is anyone coming out to stay with the brother and sister?"
Laura's eyes clouded with concern. "They say there isn't anybody. I don't think they ought to be left alone, though, so I guess I'll stay."
Spencer Arrowood looked at his watch. It was a little past three o'clock, and he still had reports to write up, and a full day of bureaucratic details to attend to after sunup. He stifled a yawn. "Guess I could stay, too," he said. "Make sure everything's all right."
"Can I go out to the kitchen? I thought I'd make some tea. Would you like some?"
"I could use some, but are you sure you want to go traipsing through this house? We didn't clean it up, you know."
Laura closed her eyes wearily. "I know," she said. "As soon as we finish drinking that tea, I thought I'd start on it."
CHAPTER 3
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak: "Oh, wh
o sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"
—"The Unquiet Grave"
The medical examiner's report and the inquest that followed were both perfunctory. The Underhills had all died of close-range wounds from the same weapon, a shotgun, and paraffin tests indicated that the gunman had been the deceased adolescent son, Joshua Underhill, who had subsequently committed suicide.
Representatives of the medical examiner's office had inspected the sheriff's diagrams of the crime scene, studying photographs of footprints and patterns of blood spatters on the walls of the farmhouse. As part of their final report on the case, they offered a reconstruction of the events that tallied with the first guess of the sheriff's department. Paul Underhill had died first, and judging from the front-entry shoulder wound, he had attempted to fight off his attacker. A horrifying chase through the house had ensued, leaving traces of blood in several rooms. Finally, another shotgun blast had slammed the retired major against the living-room wall, leaving gouts of blood that sent trickling arrows down to indicate his body, slumped against the baseboard.
Where was Janet during all this? Hiding? Attempting to go for help? She had died last. To the sheriff's surprise, the medical examiner's office insisted that the second victim had been eight-year-old Simon Underhill, the mischievous blond in the family photograph. His head still lay on the pillow, and the stain of blackened blood and gray matter on the wall behind him indicated that he had not raised his head when the killer approached him. Sleeping. There was some mercy in that. The bottom sheet was soaked to the waist level with blood from the head wound, but below that it was perfectly clean. How then to explain blood on the child's hand, curled under his right thigh? Serum testing proved that this blood belonged to an animal. The report offered no speculation regarding this fact. The rabbit outside, Spencer Arrowood thought. Was that a coincidence, or did it mean something? Since Simon Underhill had been shot while asleep in bed, the sheriff had assumed that the child had been an afterthought for the killer, caught by haphazard in the momentum of slaughter.
The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter Page 3